


The Hound of Baskerville…

by i_am_greg_lestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, based from a comic flyingrotten drew, flyingrotten, were!Lestrade, were!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1708310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_greg_lestrade/pseuds/i_am_greg_lestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson go to Dartmoor to investigate a possible werewolf sighting near the military testing facility Baskerville. Lestrade is sent out to keep an eye out for them but who was there to keep an eye out for him? Kidnapped, Lestrade is forcefully Changed, causing him to go mad...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hound of Baskerville…

**Author's Note:**

> Based from this: http://flyingrotten.tumblr.com/day/2013/11/05

“It’s nice to get London out of your lungs!” Lestrade said with a smile, beer in hand as he walked backwards away from his charges, Sherlock and John. Mycroft had sent him here to make sure they didn’t get into too much trouble with this convoluted ‘mutant dog’ case they had accepted.

Lestrade had already been on holiday when Mycroft called him. He had just found out that his wife had cheated on him again with the P.E. teacher and they had separated. Lestrade had kicked her out and decided to take some time for himself and went on a holiday to the Caribbean. The sun had relaxed him and, when Mycroft’s call came, he was happy to oblige.

When he arrived in Grimpen, Dartmoor, he couldn’t find the boys anywhere. He called Mycroft and was told to just wait at the Cross Keys Inn and that they would be there shortly. He wasn’t wrong. They walked into the inn’s pub in a huff, Sherlock spotting him instantly. Lestrade told them that he was just there on holiday, to which Sherlock promptly shot him down, seeing his tan from the Caribbean sun. There was even more of a problem with Sherlock not even knowing Lestrade’s first name was Greg, thinking it was an attempt at fooling him. Lestrade just walked out and told them he was on holiday.

Lestrade leisurely strolled through the pleasant small town, enjoying the fresh air and the green of the hills around it. He decided to explore a bit more, looking in the shop windows and sightseeing.

After a while, he forgot where the inn was and it was getting dark. He peeked down an alleyway and saw a familiar building. As he walked through the narrow walkway, he heard a scuffle behind him. He turned his head slightly to look behind him but, suddenly, his head was bludgeoned with a hard, metal object, making a loud _PANG_ sound. Collapsing to the ground, his vision receded to a small point. He was able to make out a vaguely Irish accent commanding that he be thrown into the back of a truck. And that’s all he knew for hours.

\---

Sherlock and John had met with their client, Henry Knight, in his house earlier that day. Now, they were out in the moor, at night, armed with Sherlock’s sidearm (given to him by John, who wouldn’t need it with having claws and teeth and such) and a couple dim torches.

Henry led the way back to Dewer’s Hollow, where he had witnessed his father’s brutal murder 20 years prior. They had been here the night before and had seen a large, wolf-like creature but John said that he hadn’t smelt or even heard anything at all, but he had been left behind when he had stopped to investigate some strange lights in the distance. Sherlock had come away from it visibly shaken, very unlike the usually composed man. John had tried his best to console him but he was beyond frightened.

Now, they were back out here. Sherlock shivered against the stiff breeze that whispered through the trees. “John, I don’t like this,” he said, holding his gun defensively out in front of him.

John hadn’t changed into his wolf form yet but his senses were trained on their surroundings. “I don’t smell or hear anything yet, Sherlock. Take it easy.” John grunted as the sound of a tree branch cracking startled Sherlock and the man waved the gun wildly in the direction of the noise. “And will you stop slinging that around? You’re going to shoot one of us!”

Sherlock’s pulse hammered in his throat. “But what if-” The mania was setting in, causing him to go senseless.

John stopped in front of Sherlock and gripped the trembling shoulders of the consulting detective. He hummed deep in his chest, a sound Sherlock always found comfort in. “I got you, Sherlock. I’m here. _I’m_ the only big bad wolf around, okay? All the others aren’t a match for me.”

Sherlock’s frightened mint-coloured eyes calmed and he smiled at his wolf. “Of course.”

“We’re here,” Henry muttered, dread in his tone. The mist had settled again in the hollow, limiting visibility and creating an atmosphere akin to a horror film. The trees swayed in the wind, groaning and creaking. “Here,” Henry pointed at the ground near where he stood at a dark corner of the hollow.

John stooped and shone his torchlight on the spot. There, in the mud, was a gigantic footprint. No. _Paw_ print.

Sherlock started to shake again but remained composed. “That looks like a-”

“Yeah,” John confirmed. A werewolf’s print. John feared that there was a feral wolf around here. He sniffed the area around the print but it seemed to be old, the smell of the creature that created it barely able to be scented. “Whatever it was, it’s been gone for days.”

“Then what did we see last night?” Sherlock asked with an incredulous tone.

“No idea,” John replied, shaking his head.

Suddenly, a loud crunch sounded to the east. John’s ears perked at the noise.

“What was that?!” Henry squeaked, holding his torch like a baton. He backed towards the hollow’s entrance, tripping over his own feet and falling on his backside. “Wh-what was that?!!”

“Be quiet!” John growled, his ears becoming elongated and furry. He could hear well enough with human ears but sounds were easier to catch with his wolf ones. He knew his eyes’ irises were reddening, probably a bloody-violet right now, due to the blue of his human eye colour. His vision was sharpening and he was able to see through the fog easily now. He spotted Sherlock, gun in hand again. “See anything, Sherlock?” John shouted.

“N-no. Nothing yet,” the curly-headed man yelled back, voice shaking. He struggled to keep his hands steady.

Unexpectedly, a thunderous roar echoed around them. John tried to pinpoint the origin but the sound just bounced around the hollow. Henry screamed and sprinted out of the hollow, back towards Grimpen. John yelled for him but he was cut off by another monstrous howl.

“Sherlock, behind you!” John exclaimed, pointing above Sherlock’s head to the lip of the hollow. A huge, silvery werewolf stood there, eyes blazing red-orange. John let out a fierce growl and ripped into his wolf form, teeth becoming daggers and fingers becoming claws. The giant beast on the ridge screamed a piercing, wild screech and then lunged, claws and teeth bared.

\---

Bright lights cut through the darkness clouding Lestrade’s mind. “Nnngghhph,” he moaned, his voice echoing slightly. Opening his eyes, he found that he was staring up into surgical lab lights. Lestrade turned his head to the side and saw that his left wrist was strapped to the slab he lay on. Panic starting to cloud his thoughts, he started to thrash but found that his chest, legs and feet were also bound. “H-hey! What’s going on?!” he demanded, his voice only wavering slightly. A soft chuckle cut through the silence.

“Oh, hullo, Detective Inspector,” a slightly familiar Irish voice spoke behind him. Lestrade struggled to see who it was but he couldn’t move.

“Who in the bloody hell are you?” Lestrade spat angrily. “Show yourself!”

Footsteps neared him and a pale, brown-eyed man came into view. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and a crooked smile. His hair was slicked back stylishly and he had an air of cockiness about him. Lestrade swore. “Fuckin’ Moriarty?” he laughed. “I thought you were in the loony bin.”

“Released on good behavior, detective,” Moriarty cooed, the snakelike grin never leaving his face.

“Why am I here?” Lestrade glanced around again. “And where is ‘here’?”

Lestrade heard some doors open and more footsteps converge on his table. People in medical scrubs and surgeons’ masks surrounded him, hooking him up to multiple machines. “Hey! What are you d--- stop it!” He resisted all he could but it wasn’t enough. The scientists moved away after setting an IV drip in his left arm, wires attached to electrodes on his right arm and to his head. They had ripped open his shirt and attached even more electrodes and wires to his chest, a light _blip_ signaling his erratic heartbeat.

Moriarty paced slowly, observing while they hooked him up to all the machines. Finally, after the last scientist stepped away, the doors were heard opening again and a cart was rolled beside Moriarty at the foot of Lestrade’s table, on it a black breifcase.

“What are you doing?” Lestrade demanded again, this time the fear nearly choking him. Moriarty opened the black case and pulled out a vial of reddish-white liquid. It glowed slightly under the fluorescent lighting, giving off a radioactive aura. Lestrade struggled hard against the binds.

“Now, now…” Moriarty tutted. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. This is just a test… for science…” He filled a large syringe with the viscous fluid, squirting the air and some of it out of the tip.

Lestrade’s eyes widened when he realised that the glowing liquid was going into him. Moriarty stabbed the needle into Lestrade’s neck, depressing the plunger and forcing the strange fluid into his bloodstream .“No!” Lestrade yelled. “Noo… you’re completely mad…”

Blazing agony ripped through Lestrade’s body. He screamed and writhed agains the restraints. The beeping of his heart rate quickened, becoming a nearly-constant tone. “NAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Lestrade shrieked, his chest gleaming with sweat. The pain spread all the way through his body, burning him from the inside out.

Suddenly, a tearing sound echoed through the lab. Lestrade had torn through the bonds that held his right arm and his chest to the slab. His arm had doubled in size and has sprouted silver hair. _No, not hair_ , he thought through the torturous misery. _Fur._

“WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!!” he cried out, his voice a deep bellow. Fury and confusion clouded his thoughts. All he knew was trapped and he wanted out. He strained against the rest of his bonds ripping through them and freeing himself.

Moriarty backed away, fear in his darkened eyes. He barked orders at the scientists but they were all fleeing the room. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered, eyes still focused on the changing man.

Lestrade dropped to the floor, tearing the IV out of his arm. He gripped his head and his hands found that his hair had grown shaggier and his ears were lengthening. A wave of tormenting fire coursed through his body. He heard a loud cracking noise as his ribcage reformed itself and his spine grew an extension. His legs bowed backwards and his nose forced itself forward into a blunt snout. A howl of agony escaped his stretching face as sharp teeth replaced his own dull, human ones.

With the final course of inferno-like suffering, Lestrade lost all thought other than _KILL_ and _GET OUT_. His blazing red eyes spotted a small figure huddled in a corner. Lestrade’s chest rumbled with a deep, feral growl, it’s low bass resonating through the nearly-empty lab.

The man in the corner, dressed in a black suit and fear in his brown eyes, held a metal rod with a sharp edge at the end. “G-get away!” he shouted at the beast advancing on him. He bumped back into the wall, urging his knees to stop knocking together.

Garble speech ripped out of the silver wolf’s throat. “KKIIILLLLL!” he snarled, bearing his dripping, white fangs.

Moriarty’s eyes shut as the monster lunged. He waved the weapon through the air and heard a yelp as it made contact with something solid. He slumped to the ground, eyes still screwed shut.

Silence.

Then, an earsplitting wail shatters the calm. He heard the doors crash open and a window shatter in the hallway.

The beast had escaped.

\---

The silver wolf whimpered, glass in his paws. He hurried into the forest around the Baskerville facility, where he had just escaped from. He saw lights flashing in the distance and he snarled. _KILL_ screamed over and over in his thoughts like a siren.

Abruptly, the smell of another wolf hit his nostrils, turning his vision red. He recognised a few other scents but the smell of wolf fogged his mind, befuddled and angered him. The silver wolf heaved his chest and roared vociferously, his voice reverberating off of the trees.

He heard a nearby scream and yelling. He crested a low lip of a hollow. Two things stood in it, one small thing and then a growing thing. The silver wolf snarled down at the small one as the big one yelled, “Sherlock, behind you!”

_Sherlock._ The name bounced around painfully in the silvery grey wolf’s head. He screamed. He was able to recognise the big one as another wolf now, ashy blond. It spoke with a man voice.

“He is one! I can smell it!”

_KILL!!_

The grey wolf sprung in attack.

\---

John leapt in front of Sherlock blocking the snarling wolf’s assault. “Move back, Sherlock!”

The other wolf cried out, half growling half whimpering. He had a long gash across his forehead and his front paws were all sliced up. John shoved him back and snarled, the sound ripping out of his throat in warning to the other wolf. He seemed to be new, driven mad by the Change. He wasn’t able to speak. The silver wolf uttered a low, garbled whine, panic set in his red-brown eyes. John barked an order at him but he didn’t seem to understand.

_What happened to you…?_ he questioned. The other wolf’s face changed from a sad, hurt look to a slobbering, sneering bunch of fangs and sharp teeth. He howled in pain, piercingly loudly. John winced in sympathy. Whatever happened to this wolf was forced upon him, and rather quickly. He glimpsed the lights of Baskerville in the distance. _Oh course._ They _WERE_ doing experiments but on people, not animals.

The grey wolf lunged again for Sherlock but John bounded into the path of the raging beast, bearing his teeth and snapping at the deranged silver wolf.

Sherlock pointed his gun at the huge animal, aim shaking and sheer terror making his heart thud painfully against his ribs. John could hear it. He could smell the sweat sliding down his back too.

John also scented something else too. Something familiar that wasn’t Sherlock or even Henry, who was long gone. He fixed eyes on the raging wolf’s own darkened red orbs, staring intently. Fear, desperation, and madness swirled all together but there was something else, and John could barely see it. _Oh… my GOD!_

“Sherlock!!” John screamed as he heard a bullet slide into the chamber of the sidearm Sherlock held in his quivering hands. “Don’t shoot!”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John and back to the rampaging monster. “B-”

“Don’t!!” John snarled. “This is Lestrade!!”

Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. It all clicked into place. They hadn’t been able to find him at all today. The silver fur. The slight facial resemblance. It really was the DI. He lowered his gun and stared, open-mouthed at John.

\---

_Lestrade!_

The word- no… name repeated over and over in the grey wolf’s mind.

_This is—_

_He is—_

_I—_

Pain ripped through his chest. A long whimper tore itself from his throat as his bones reformed and snapped throughout his entire body. He fell to his newly reformed knees and clutched at his restructuring head. The silver fur receded to just his head. Blood poured anew from the wound on his head but the glass had been pushed out of his hands, saving him from major damage. As the last shudders of the Change ran through his body, Lestrade cried. Tears of anguish trickled down his face.

John shifted back and ran to the man on the ground. He didn’t touch him. He knew what it felt like to be anatomically ripped apart and reassembled like that and being touched right after was painful. The first few times are always this raw and agonizing. He knelt next to Lestrade, not saying anything.

Sherlock looked to John, unsure of what he should do. He stood with the gun dangling from his hand.

“Sh-lock…”

Lestrade’s rasp snapped Sherlock out of his stupor. “Lestrade.”

Lestrade peeked at Sherlock from between his fingers, eye still blazing red fro recent change. “Call… Mycroft…” he gasped and collapsed into John.

John put his arms around the unconscious man, supporting his weight but still falling back and sitting on the ground. Lestrade just slept right there, the tremours of the Change still coursing through his body.

\---

Mycroft met the men at the train station near Grimpen the next morning. Sherlock went ahead of John and Lestrade when they got there, wanting to talk to Mycroft privately first. He hadn’t said anything about Lestrade’s condition, but they had mentioned that they had caught the ‘hound’. Mycroft wanted to make sure it got back safely, knowing full well about its lycanthrope-ish nature.

Lestrade was still struggling to stay conscious, his head nodding to his chest every 5 minutes. The bandages around his head and on the cuts on his face were irritating but he knew they were helping. John urged him not to open his eyes much in this public place. They were still abnormally red (for a human) and might alarm the general public.

“Just, try to walk?” John insisted. “You’ll feel better once you get moving, trust me.”

Lestrade grunted a short laugh. “M’kay. T’ever yeh say…” He stumbled a few steps, doing pretty well, then his knees wobbled and he started to fall.

John rushed to him and supported him, lifting the other man’s arm over his head. John put his left arm around Lestrade’s back and held him up. “We’ll do it this way.”

Together, John and Lestrade slowly made their way to the correct platform. John caught the tail end of Sherlock and Mycroft’s conversation.

“…we don’t know how but we will investigate,” Sherlock had been saying. “He’s a werewolf of his own kind. Not bitten but created. Injected, it seemed.” He glanced over Mycroft’s shoulder and spotted John and Lestrade. They were close. “We know you help us with John’s secret-”

“-and… humbly ask you to help us… one more time…” John puffed, out of breath.

Mycroft turned as the two men mount the last step and stand there. He at first didn’t identify who the grey-haired man John is helping stand was but he slowly put it together.

John took a deep breath, settling his heart. “… by watching over this dude.”

Lestrade mumbles something unintelligible and Mycroft finally recognises him.

“Greg, say hi,” John prompted the shaky DI.

Lestrade just murmured again, his hand flopping into the air and falling limply to his side again.

**Author's Note:**

> Left this open for possible continuation... *eyebrow wiggle*


End file.
